


Throw Cares Away

by alexaprilgarden



Series: Dreams and Cares [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Again, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, First Kiss, First Sex, Light Panic Attack, M/M, Sherlock's POV, St Paul's Cathedral, implied/referenced depressive phase, light case-fic, not compliant to S4, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-11 21:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13533324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: Sherlock had taught John how to dance for his wedding, and that night, John had kissed Sherlock. And had gone and got married nonetheless. Now, it’s the first Christmas after. After Appledore, after the disaster of John’s marriage. After John returned to Baker Street.And it should have been so easy, so simple, once that John was back. It isn’t anywhere near simple.





	Throw Cares Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TooSel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/gifts).



> This fic is my way to say _thank you_ to my wonderful beta and friend @TooSel. Her prompt was "Christmas... and not too much case-fic". I started writing this fic in November 2017, absolutely sure I would finish it way before Christmas. Life happened. Argh. I'm so sorry.  
>   
>  Beta'ed by the absolutely outstanding @sincewhendoyoucallme_john. Thank you so, so, so much.

“Sherlock, shouldn’t we go—” 

Sherlock pretends to scan the surface of the dean’s desk with his magnifying glass. From the corner of his eye he sees John shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

Mycroft had rung him earlier, calling in a favour. Several break-ins at the offices of the members of the chapter of St Paul’s, the last one just this afternoon. Again, original sheet music from the cathedral’s musical archives is missing. The dean didn’t want to call the police — not on December 24th. Maybe even he could see that it was an inside job. 

In spite of the investigation, the hallway outside the dean’s office is buzzing with festive excitement, with the foreshadowing of one of the most important concerts of the year. There’s still some time to go until the final rehearsal of St Paul’s Choir, and even more until Midnight Eucharist begins. Some of the boys from the choir and their parents rush along the hallway, both children and adults giddy with anticipation. 

“Sherlock.” John is getting impatient. 

“One moment.” 

The dean has already left, it’s Christmas Eve after all. He permitted Sherlock and John to have a thorough look at his work place and Sherlock pretends to be very much lost in thought, very busy solving the puzzle. 

There is nothing he is examining. 

He has been examining _nothing_ for the past ten minutes. He is biding for time. 

Small fingerprints scattered over the the shiny wooden surface indicate a juvenile thief at best, dark blue wool fibres hint at the uniform from St Paul’s Cathedral School. Missing sheet music — the suspect is clearly an over-eager boy from the choir with considerable criminal energy. Sherlock solved the case about one and a half minutes after he’d entered the dean’s office, John in tow. 

He could have searched the choristers, their rooms, their messy backpacks, insulted their worried parents. But to what end? To find a boy who was stupid enough ( _or desperate enough_ , a secret part of Sherlock’s brain supplies) to steal invaluable documents written by a baroque composer? To inevitably make this the worst Christmas of his childhood, or even the end of it? 

_Oh shut it,_ Sherlock interrupts his idle inner ramblings, _you’re simply too much of a coward to spend this Christmas with John at Baker Street._

— 

Sherlock has been increasingly rude to John during the past weeks. He tried to shove him away to his sister’s for Christmas. John refused, out of some infuriating John-ness and disgustingly noble obligation to spend this Christmas with Sherlock. 

It’s the first Christmas _after_. After Appledore, after the disaster of John’s marriage. After John returned to Baker Street. 

And it should have been so easy, so simple, once John was back. It hasn’t been anywhere near simple. 

John came back months ago. He hadn’t been tied to Mary anymore. Hadn’t loved her anymore, not the liar she had turned out to be, the assassin. John didn’t speak much. Still doesn’t. Still tries to fit in the hole that he’d left in Sherlock’s life when Sherlock had come back to London and found John was getting engaged. Maybe life has changed John too much. 

(Sherlock tries to fit in the hole he’d left in John’s life the day he jumped. Needless to say that he, too, has changed.) 

John came back to Sherlock exhausted and aged, with red-rimmed eyes and a heart that yet had to overcome betrayal and hurt, lost loves and missed chances. 

Sherlock’s heart had nodded in recognition and, without further questioning, spread a little wider in his chest, past the gunshot hole, to hold John’s pain as well. 

Sherlock’s mind palace now has a lockable wing for the memories of both the happier times before the fall and the sad times, which had been ever after. 

There is a special room, small and warm, filled with low music. It houses the memory of the day Sherlock had taught John how to dance for the wedding. The memory of how John had kissed Sherlock, that silent moment of a happiness yet unknown to him. It’s probably the most beautiful room in the entire mind palace, by far the dearest one to Sherlock. Entering it requires all his keys and picklocks, all the glove-handed safety combinations and meticulously filled out visitor’s application forms, to be handed in three weeks in advance. 

It should have been so easy. Letting John come back to 221B, letting him come back into Sherlock’s life and maybe — eventually, one day, when Sherlock would feel outstandingly bold, after solving a case, a proper 10 — showing him that small, warm room, filled with low music, and careful dancing. (With a tentative kiss.) Maybe, if he ever musters the courage, maybe even taking the enormous risk of finding out if this might be a place John loves as much as he does. If, in the end, John loves him in the same way he loves John. 

He had been so sure that the kiss had meant something to John. All the signs had been there, the elevated heart rate, the dilated pupils, and most of all, Sherlock’s foolish heart had _felt_ it. But now — now it looks as if there’s simply not enough left of the John who’d kissed him. 

— 

This morning, Sherlock wanted to scream. To slam doors, to shoot walls. His default state of mind these days. 

But they have changed. Sherlock doesn’t shoot walls anymore. John doesn’t look at bullet holes in the wall, covered up by smiley faces in yellow spray paint, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. 

Sherlock has been very silent since John came back. Comfortably and carefully so, wrapping silence around John like a blanket, trying to shield him from any harm. Trying to give him space and time to heal. But John hasn’t healed, it seems. He probably doesn’t even want to be shielded from anything. 

John is working again at a clinic _(new one, still dull)_ , he handles the chores of everyday life with a remarkable sense of duty. But the emotional exhaustion hasn’t subsided. It’s dampening John’s small smiles, his mirth, even his anger. In a way, John isn’t back at all. Sherlock very rarely catches glimpses of the John he used to know. Only during cases. There haven’t been nearly enough cases. 

Navigating two somewhat broken lives and John’s aching heart, uncertain where they’re even heading, has proved to be more than Sherlock was equipped to deal with. Sherlock’s silence passed comfort a while ago and drifted into mute helplessness. Recently it has grown icy with frustration, with an underlying anger at himself because he doesn’t know how to make things right. 

On top of it all, Christmas is approaching. And as much as Sherlock tries to despise it, it still makes him sentimental. He never fails to see the momentousness of things happening at Christmas. 

He’d rather not have anything happen at Christmas. Because the only thing likely to happen these days, with the small room in his mind palace and the yearning of his heart still under lock and key, is him being his usual self, abrasive with frustration. Rude and aggravating until John finally snaps at him and storms out of the flat. And this time Sherlock isn’t at all sure John would ever come back. 

Thus the attempt to make John safely spend Christmas with his sister. To make them weep over their divorces companionably, avoid drinking and still feel miserable, carry on their childhood grudges. And let these days dissolve into nothingness. 

But John, ever so stubborn, had refused and stayed. 

So, Sherlock gratefully accepted the case Mycroft presented. 

— 

“Sherlock. Now.” 

A shadow moves quickly behind the office’s door to the hallway, left ajar. 

Sherlock’s heart pounds two, three quick beats. He nods in the direction of the door, dashes past John and then he is running after whoever was there. 

— 

It is dark outside when Sherlock storms out of the chapter house. He spots the shadow across the square, disappearing through one of the side doors of St Paul’s. 

He hears John running after him, barely managing to slip through the heavy door before it falls shut again. 

Sherlock doesn’t have eyes for the beauty of St Paul’s Cathedral. But he knows how it will take John’s breath away for a moment, even now, even though they are on a case, chasing a suspect. The large chandeliers bathe the church in a warm golden light. Somewhere above his head, a low organ tune is resounding against the background of muffled whispers and cautious footsteps. An all-embracing, silent charm must have been cast upon the vast cathedral. 

Sherlock scans the place for their suspect, a kid disappearing among the few scattered groups of people visiting during the evening hours between Christmas Carol Service and Midnight Eucharist. 

He turns to see John gaping in wonder at the elegantly proportioned arcs and pillars, at the black and white tiles that stretch out endlessly on the floor. On his left, the giant dome opens up above the centre of the cathedral. Its sheer size never fails to surprise him. He spots the miniature forms of visitors wandering the Whispering Gallery, almost a hundred feet above them. 

He tears his eyes away from the splendour of marble and mosaics. A few feet ahead, someone vanishes behind a pillar. 

“John!” Sherlock hisses impatiently, parts a group of coat-clad visitors in the nave, and hurries to follow their suspect towards the large staircase to the dome. John remains left behind again. 

This is all Sherlock ever does these days. He tries to drag John along. And he is more than a bit afraid what would happen if John finally caught up. On especially bad days he is almost certain that it has been a terrible idea to let John move back in. 

— 

Sherlock takes two stairs at a time. He dashes past visitors descending, leaving them to bump into John as he follows a moment later. 

When Sherlock passes the entry to the Whispering Gallery, he casts a quick glance down. The visitors wandering the ground of the cathedral look like toy soldiers. 

His steps are loud on the stairs, echoing down the large stony staircase. There is another echo, the steps are lighter, swifter and never hesitating. The person running from them doesn’t need to stop to check for the right way. 

— 

A boy. 

It turns out to be indeed a wispy boy of maybe thirteen years who ran up hundreds of stairs with light and knowing steps and lost for a place or a person to turn to after all. 

The boy is alone in the icy darkness of the Stone Gallery that surrounds the outside of the dome, 170 feet above London’s streets. He is leaning against the giant limestone bannister with the whole weight of his body. Different from what it looks like from the ground, the bannister is over-sized, taller than Sherlock, and making the boy look much smaller. Right now it’s the only threshold holding him back from another escape. 

The boy stares at the city at the cathedral’s feet. His backpack is slumped down next to him. He has pulled the sleeves of his woolen school uniform jumper over his hands and his scarf covers his mouth. They both bear the emblem of the Cathedral’s School. The wind pulls on his disheveled brown hair. He is still breathing heavily. He must be freezing up here. 

Sherlock stops running the moment he spots him. He tries to catch his breath and calm down for the sake of the boy. The last steps Sherlock takes towards the kid are deliberately slow, allowing him to notice every minor detail and signaling he doesn’t pose a threat. This isn’t a showdown, this is a rescue mission. He prays he won’t fail. 

He hears John’s steps a few feet behind him, feels John’s presence, strong and steady, watching his back, as he always does. Sherlock wants to sigh with relief. He has never been good at saving someone on his own. 

Sherlock steps closer to the bannister, almost touching one of its mighty pillars. He looks at London, glittering beneath them. He can almost hear the boy’s ragged breathing, feel the tension in lurking in his stomach. 

“You’re one of the choristers.” 

The boy doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look at Sherlock, either. 

“You play the piano, and the organ. You practise a couple of hours a day, at least…” — Sherlock tilts his head — “four. You hate boarding school.” 

He keeps his voice low, just enough for the boy and John to hear him. The boy’s eyes flicker with the familiar irritation of being deduced. 

“I’m Sherlock. I hated boarding school as well. It was a different school, but it doesn’t matter, does it.” 

He is surprised at how tired he sounds. He draws a breath and focuses. They’re on _a_ _case_. 

“I play the violin. I have a stradivarius.” 

After a moment of letting the words sink in, the boy finally takes the bait. 

“You don’t,” the boy replies sharply, the breaking of his voice a promise in its low underlying rasp. 

“I do. The _Habeneck_. The Royal Academy of Music owed my brother a favour.” 

For the first time, the boy turns his head to look at Sherlock, who still lets his eyes linger at the illuminated city. 

Sherlock has to keep his attention, has to earn his trust. 

“You’re much more talented than the other choristers. It’s not only the singing. You _know_ about music. You understand it deeply. Chances are that you will be an outstanding musician if you keep at it. Composer, maybe.” 

The way the boy goes back to staring at the city tells Sherlock he has hit a nerve. The kid is standing a little more upright now, his shoulders squared defiantly. 

“But — just a few weeks and your voice will break. You won’t be able to sing in the choir anymore. You’re getting too old. You’ll go to a new school next term as well.” 

The boy is silent. 

“Picked one yet?” 

The boy nods. 

“Like it?” 

Still without looking at him, the kid shrugs. 

“Things change. Things constantly change,” Sherlock says at last. 

The boy and Sherlock stand at the bannister. If Sherlock would stretch out his hand, he’d touch the boy. A few feet behind them, John is watching their backs. Sherlock turns his head towards John, not enough to see him. Just enough to connect. 

“You will adapt. You’re strong.” 

Sherlock wishes he could see John’s face now, he wishes he had the courage to say this to him for real. The city is still glittering, still beautiful when he looks back at her. 

“I just want to play. And write music. Learn everything there is.” The boy’s voice is just a whisper against the wind, and still heavy with these words he’s probably never said to anyone else. 

Sherlock feels the silence from behind him, John’s silence. He doesn’t have to turn to know John is watching him and the boy, silently feeding Sherlock lines to pull the kid away from the edge. 

“If you make a habit of stealing Handel’s handwritten sheet music you’ll be nothing more than yet another new boring _enfant_ _terrible_ of music.” 

There’s a barely audible inhale from John. _A bit not good._ But it works. 

“I wanted to study it,” the boy explains in a low voice. “Just wanted to see if there are hints where he has changed his work, crossed something out or so. Try to learn about his process of composing.” The boy pauses to draw a breath, shuddering, careful. “I did want to give it back.” 

“Good. That’s good,—” 

“Joshua,” the boy cuts in, revealing his name as if it was a secret. 

“Joshua. I’ll make sure you can give it back. If you need to have a look at Handel’s original sheets, we’ll get a facsimile. Don’t waste your chances like this.” 

Sherlock is silent for a moment. When he speaks again, against a flaw of wind, his voice is lower, tinged with regret and defiance. 

“I have wasted a lot of chances in my life. I know what it’s like.” 

Nobody says a word. Sherlock turns towards the walls of the dome, where John is standing. He turns just a fraction, until he can make out John’s body, a dark silhouette against the light grey stone. John is frozen in his spot and is his reassuring presence is crumbling. He looks as if he got punched in the gut. Seeing him like this lights a sickening, searing flame of loss and guilt deep down inside Sherlock. 

He turns a bit further, still not daring to look at John directly. He feels John’s gaze, he feels the weight of all the words they haven’t said to each other. He doesn’t know what these words would be, what they would say, but their power still threatens to overwhelm him. He has to turn back. 

He looks at the city and her streets instead, her streetlights torches in the darkness. Brightly lit buildings like lighthouses in a sea of asphalt, concrete and brickwork, of steel and glass and marble. 

— 

For a long time, neither of them says a word. 

Sherlock pictures John still standing behind him, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. Seeking shelter from the cold. Hiding the tension his hands are giving away constantly, sometimes mingled dangerously with furious despair, and far too often paralyzed by increasing resignation. 

Sherlock is grateful there aren’t any other visitors on the Stone Gallery. 

Joshua doesn’t move. Neither do Sherlock or John. They are all stuck in their respective places. 

Eventually, the bells of St Paul’s strike ten times on the dome above them. It is loud and clear, tearing Sherlock out of his thoughts. 

When the ringing has died away, Joshua turns his head and looks past Sherlock for a long time. Sherlock only realizes a few heartbeats later that John must have made some secret connection with the boy. Joshua slowly bends down, opens his backpack and hands Sherlock a large manila envelope without looking at him. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says with a nod and watches the boy for another moment. He looks younger now, softer, still so very much a child. Sherlock feels a hand on his back, a reassuring weight on his left shoulder blade. He hasn’t heard John approaching, but suddenly he’s there, right beside him. He turns and sees John smiling at Joshua, full of warmth and protection. 

_What an amazing father he would have made,_ Sherlock thinks and feels unspeakably sad, understanding John’s sorrow to a new extent. 

“Could you just call the dean and Mr Carwood?” Joshua asks and his gaze flickers from John to Sherlock. “They must be going mad about the missing sheets.” 

Sherlock can’t tell if he sounds defeated, tired or astounded by the fact that life might just have opened another one of its doors for him, allowing him to walk through and start anew. 

— 

There is a lot of talking when the dean and the musical director come to the Stone Gallery, and it exhausts Sherlock. He called them, as requested. The envelope with the sheet music is handed back to the dean. Sherlock makes a few suggestions to improve the safety of the archive, together with a recommendation of a company specialised in that field that owes him a favour. 

In clipped sentences Sherlock explains why Joshua has stolen the sheets. The dean and the musical director listen with intense focus. Sherlock sends a brief prayer of gratitude for the fact that they aren’t complete morons. He explains how to further support Joshua’s outstanding musical talent. He hears himself talking, sounding eager and a little desperate. Meanwhile John is standing at the bannister with Joshua, pointing at streets and buildings below and telling him about cases they have been on. 

When they are done, the dean thanks Sherlock and invites him and John to the Midnight Eucharist. He shakes Sherlock’s hand, excuses himself and finally leaves. The musical director walks over to Joshua and calmly puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Let’s go downstairs, Joshua. The rehearsal is about to start.” 

Slowly defiance and fear evaporate from Joshua’s posture. Sherlock feels the relief that must be flooding Joshua right now. When John turns up next to Sherlock, brushing his arm against his, Sherlock almost smiles. 

Mr Carwood and Joshua leave. But before Joshua follows the musical director through the door back to the staircase, he turns into Sherlock’s and John’s direction. He straightens and looks at them, channeling a silent _Thank you._

— 

There is no post-case high. But there is relief and an odd sense of weariness, seeping deeply into Sherlock’s body. He stands on the gallery, now lost and purposeless. He pulls his coat closer around his body. 

John is still standing where Joshua has left him. He bites his lips and draws a breath and turns to the bannister again. 

Tentatively Sherlock comes closer and leans against one of the pillars next to him. 

— 

They stand there for a long time, watching cars and busses down on Cannon Street. Londoners hurrying back to their warm and shiny homes, artfully decorated for the holidays. The Thames’s glistening black waters. The familiar outline of the Tate Modern at the other side of the river. If Sherlock would circle the dome, if he’d walk to the other side of the Stone Gallery, he would see the colourful Christmas lights on Regent’s Street and Bond Street. 

He has to think of their flat, of the holly, the mistletoe and the fairy lights Mrs Hudson has put up. 

He glances at his watch. They should go probably downstairs at some point, and leave. He doesn’t want to attend Midnight Eucharist — something else that’s not quite _his area_ — but he’d rather not disturb it either. 

When the wind stills for a moment, Sherlock hears the boys from the choir singing, down in the cathedral. It takes him a moment to recognize _Good King Wenceslas,_ hushed by the the city’s noise and the December wind. 

— 

“It’s beautiful,” John says. “Christmas carols. Choirs.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t know what else John likes about Christmas. He didn’t like last year’s, so much had been obvious. 

“I’m still not going to see Harry, you know,” John states. There is something in his voice that makes Sherlock shift into a state of alert. 

“That’s what you’ve said,” Sherlock replies, treading cautiously. 

And then John speaks. Tries to speak. 

“You know, Sherlock, I—” He breaks off. Starts anew. 

“The past months. Haven’t been easy. It hasn’t been easy ever since we — well.” 

John turns to look at him. Sherlock looks away, just in time to make sure their gazes don’t meet. He tries to focus on London stretched out in front of him, but he could as well pretend to read a book he’s holding upside down. It’s the sound of John’s voice that alarms Sherlock, he sounds sincere and he’s struggling for words. It’s the look in his eyes Sherlock is avoiding. 

John talks for the first time in months. Sherlock feels he should be — he should be _something_ , glad, relieved, grateful for everything that might break their stifling silence, but he isn’t. He isn’t at all. 

John clears his throat, the familiarity of his awkwardness almost aching. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot. I know it hasn’t been easy. With me.” 

The city drifts in and out of focus. All of a sudden, Sherlock is scared, absolutely, horrifyingly scared, and whatever John is about to say drowns in the noise inside Sherlock’s head. 

The realization that their wordless stalemate might have held a great advantage despite all the frustration hits Sherlock with blunt force. Somehow, everything still had been possible. It had been become less and and likely that their kiss had still meant something to John, but at least he hadn’t outright denied it. Which is probably exactly what John is going to do now. 

Whatever John is going to tell him, he’s not ready. He doesn’t want to hear John’s apologies, his pity. That _this, them_ simply isn’t working, that it is for the better if he finds himself a place of his own. 

Sherlock makes a decision — he has to leave, pretend this never happened, rather find John gone one day than endure this. He has to let go of the hopes he’s nourished and of his love. He has to end this _now_. He can do it. Again. 

Sherlock’s hands are clammy and trembling, there is cold sweat on his forehead. He forces himself to breathe slowly, and again, deeply, trying to will his heartbeat to slow down, fighting nausea. After a few moments, the thundering in his ears subsides and his vision widens again. 

— 

“Sherlock, look at me.” 

John’s eyes are pleading and sad. Haven’t they looked this way ever since Sherlock had come back? Maybe — he doesn’t quite allow himself to even think this — maybe they have ever since Sherlock’s fall. Mycroft’s photographs never quite showed. 

Sherlock turns to leave, still feeling shaky. 

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John raises his hand to touch him, to keep him in place. For an instant he hesitates and then gently puts it on Sherlock’s upper arm. “Hey, stop. You’re panicking.” 

“I — John, let me. I have to go.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

_Don’t you tell me what I have to do,_ Sherlock wants to bark, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes a half-hearted step towards the door leading to the staircase to flee this place. Still desperate to get out of this situation, fighting for the determination he needs to step away from John Watson. 

John smiles a small, sad smile, a smile that Sherlock’s hurt heart wants to believe says something between _Thank you_ and _Stay with me_ . He takes another step towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock raises his hands in an misplaced gesture of defence. 

“No. Don’t.” 

“Wait, please, Sherlock, let me explain.” 

Sherlock forces himself to stop, to stay frozen on the spot and hear John out. He lifts his head to look at the night sky in exasperation. 

_No help from above, is there._

John tries to say something, opens his mouth and closes it again. In the end, he shakes his head at himself and just steps closer to Sherlock. 

_John is so close already, why does he come closer still?_

Sherlock feels a hand on his jaw. It’s a cool and gentle stroke and it takes him so much strength not to lean in. He doesn’t look down. 

John touches his neck and pulls him closer very carefully. No, he doesn’t even pull. It’s just a hint. Wordless communication, like dancing. It’s John leading Sherlock, guiding him. 

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut as his heart gets the upper hand and defeats all logic. He makes a silent vow — _one moment._ For only one moment, he will give in to John. He lowers his gaze and his eyes meet John’s, dark in the dim light, and still sad. There is a flicker of hope Sherlock hates to destroy. 

John draws Sherlock closer, until Sherlock feels the warmth of John’s body through the thick layers of clothes and coats. John is so impossibly close to him. Sherlock has forgotten about the stubborn strength of his heart, about the ferocity with which it can beat in his chest, wildly pounding blood through his body. It is deafening. 

Their kiss is silent. It is peace, newfound, long-lost peace. It is the softness of John’s lips, the promise of home, of _finally_ , of love. 

John lets his lips rest on Sherlock’s for this one promised moment. Long enough that their lips feel familiar against each other. Then John opens his mouth ever so gently, brushes his lower lip across Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock feels a hitch of warm, humid breath float from John’s mouth against his lips. He can almost taste John. It’s perfect, it’s what he wants. This and more. 

He exhales, breaks the kiss and pulls back. 

When he opens his eyes, he avoids John, and looks at some buildings in the distance. He lets the feeling of the kiss linger on his lips for a second, because the words he will say will irrefutably wipe it away. He clears his throat, and straightens. 

“John, there—” 

Sherlock’s voice is about to break. It doesn’t. It takes so much to break someone. 

“There is only so many times I can do this. Survive after you kiss me and go back to your…” He tries to finish the sentence with a vague gesture of his hand. “…life.” 

The word drops down between them, so heavy with meaning. John’s life. His wedding. His wife. Everything that hadn’t been Sherlock. Old wounds start to hurt, wounds that cut down to the bone, and deeper still. 

Silence stretches out between them. 

— 

_There. Said it._

Sherlock focuses on the rush of blood in his ears, on his heartbeat, on his breathing. Tries to keep any thought of John at bay. Which is a difficult thing to do, with John standing next to him, the air charged with everything that has happened. 

Sherlock looks at London. In an attempt to keep his mind from going into overdrive he scans through his inner map of the city at their feet, naming the quarters he can spot from up here _— Lambeth, Southwark, Bermondsey, Tower Hill, Wapping, Whitechapel, the Isle of Dogs in the background._

— 

It takes him a while to realize that John hasn’t backed away, hasn’t turned. Hasn’t said a word. Sherlock braces himself to see rejection, hurt, anger, and looks at him for the briefest of moments. 

But John is calm. He isn’t even surprised. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says simply. 

Sherlock blinks. He hates doing that, it always gives away his confusion, his inability to process what it happening. He blinks again. 

“You’re not—” 

“Not going anywhere.” John stands very straight, his arms loosely by his side. There isn’t the slightest trace of tension or uncertainty. “Not going away, not moving out. In case you worried.” 

John pauses. _He looks so gentle,_ Sherlock thinks, suddenly and ironically proud that he has fallen in love with the obviously most amazing man in the world. 

John speaks again, drawing Sherlock’s mind back to the surface of reality. “I’ve thought a lot. I’ve grieved. Those past months. I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through, and for not telling you what’s been going on inside me. But I’m here now. And that’s — that’s what I’ve come to understand, what I’ve felt ever since we kissed.” He clears his throat. “I want to stay. With you. This is where I belong.” 

The wind has calmed down. Broken sounds of children’s voices waft up from the choir down in the cathedral. 

“There is no other life for me but the life with you, Sherlock.” 

— 

Sherlock’s heart momentarily refuses to work. The missing heartbeat stretches into eternity. 

John is standing in front of him. His hair is more silver than blond and there are more lines around his eyes than when they first met. Sherlock wants to touch every single one of them. He doesn’t quite dare to. 

_Will that be allowed? Touching his face? Touching John?_

Sherlock heard the words John said, they’re already sinking in, altering his life and every possible reality he might ever exist in. They leave Sherlock feeling hazy, and euphoria about to blossom in his chest. 

John is standing in front of him, smiling at him. The smile isn’t sad anymore. 

_That’s a start._

His heartbeat kicks back in. 

— 

The music from the cathedral gets louder. Sherlock recognizes the dramatic crescendo of the _Carol of the Bells._ He’s always loved that one. He loves its intensity, the ostinato that gives the carol a pulse of its own. The whirring soprano carrying the lyrics. 

__Hark how the bells,  
Sweet silver bells,  
All seem to say,  
Throw cares away 

_Throw cares away,_ Sherlock thinks. _Throw cares away._

John is still smiling at him. 

— 

Sherlock’s heart fires three beats in rapid succession. He wants to kiss John again. It’s an irresistible urge and growing stronger with every breath he takes. His gaze involuntarily drifts from John’s eyes to his mouth and back again. John reads his mind, it seems, and opens his mouth, just a bit. 

There are no more than a few inches between them, they haven’t stepped away from each other since John kissed him a few minutes ago. Sherlock needs to touch him, to feel him. He takes the gloves off his hands and touches John’s hand. It’s cold, but it curls around Sherlock’s immediately. He slowly lifts his other hand, touches the lines around John’s eyes and draws a line across his cheekbone. He feels John leaning into his touch. 

Sherlock draws John closer, until he can feel the white puffs of John’s breath warm on his face and then John’s lips are on his. 

They feel cool and dry at the very first moment, and then they are warm and soft, unbelievable and real. 

— 

This isn’t a stolen kiss, this isn’t a secret kiss. 

It’s no kiss out of despair, no kiss to convey what they can’t put into words. 

This kiss is love. It’s free. It’s real. 

And it changes everything. 

— 

In Sherlock’s mind palace, all the locks and PIN-pads for the small, special room are being removed, the visitor’s application forms are being burned. It is open at all times now, and right next to it, the construction of a larger room has begun, meant to house the memory of _this._

— 

John groans into the kiss. Sherlock opens his mouth and their tongues slide together. Sherlock’s knees are made of water. He wraps his right arm around John to make sure he doesn’t actually collapse. 

The way this man _tastes_. 

Sherlock feels John’s breath on his face, feels his jaw move, his lips and his tongue. He smells his skin, his hair, even in the cold that dampens all scents, alters them. He hears the tiny noises John makes and he _loves_ them. He’s always known he’d be addicted instantly. 

— 

“I’ve been such an idiot, Sherlock,” John breathes. He leans his forehead against Sherlock’s cheek, panting. 

“Hardly any news, is it?” Sherlock smirks. 

“How could I — _kiss_ you and hope to walk away and carry on with my life. And didn’t see the confusion and pain I’ve caused us,” John says, shaky with emotion. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and exhales. 

John brings his hand to Sherlock’s face, the one that isn’t holding Sherlock’s hand. His cool fingers graze over Sherlock’s cheek. He lifts his head and moves his lips against Sherlock’s. Parting them slightly, asking for permission, for forgiveness. 

Sherlock sighs, so soft that John must rather feel it than hear it and opens his lips to let John in. 

Far away, down on the streets or maybe on Blackfriars Bridge, a police siren calls out. 

Sherlock slowly breaks the kiss a few moments later and places his lips to the corner of John’s right eye. 

“Let’s go home.” 

— 

They go down the stairs in silence, and when they cross the nave of the cathedral, they catch a glimpse of the choir, almost finished rehearsing. Joshua stands in the second row. He nods at Sherlock and John. Smiles shyly. There’s hope in his eyes. 

_Not failed him._

— 

They pay the cabbie, get out of the cab. Fidget with the keys to open the door. 

The stairs creak way too loud, in spite of the low Christmas songs playing on Mrs Hudson’s kitchen radio. 

They ignore the mistletoe she has put ever-so-subtly over their living room door. — No, they don’t. Sherlock stops, awkwardly, and brushes, not without blushing, a kiss against John’s lips. 

John smiles at him in surprise, kisses back just as lightly and shrugs out of his coat. 

He gets two tumblers and a bottle of scotch from the kitchen, places all three on the low table in front of the sofa. 

Sherlock is still standing in the middle of their sitting room, dimly lit by a string of fairy lights over the mantel, hating that he doesn’t know how to proceed from here. 

— 

“Sit down with me?” John offers from the sofa. He even pats the spot next to him and so Sherlock complies, and sits down next to him, much closer than he’d ever dared before. It’s not that he’s never crept into John’s personal space on the sofa. But usually he intruded with his feet, placing them against John’s thigh or slipping them under it, stealing some warmth on a chilly evening. But never like this, sitting so close they almost touch from shoulders to knees. 

John hands him a glass filled with two fingers of whisky. 

“Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas, John.” 

They drink. 

John leans against the back of the sofa and Sherlock, again, doesn’t know what to do. Until John pulls him closer, carefully directing and rearranging him until Sherlock is leaning with his shoulders against John’s chest and his legs are stretched out on the coffee table. 

Sherlock feels John’s heart beating and the rise and fall of his chest. 

After a moment, Sherlock lets his head sink against John’s shoulder. John places his lips against Sherlock’s hair. 

They sip from their drinks. It’s very peaceful, Sherlock realizes, and gradually calms down. He allows himself to sink more heavily against John, feels the kisses John breathes into his curls and lets himself be held. For the first time in months, in years, he feels like he isn’t holding his breath any more, and a peace that reaches down to the core of his soul settles in. He closes his eyes. 

— 

It is chilly when he wakes. He needs the loo. John has fallen asleep as well. He sits up, cold creeping in on his back where he was resting against John’s warm body a heartbeat ago. 

“John,” he whispers, voice raspy with sleep. 

John doesn’t react, so he says John’s name again, a little louder, until John hums and stirs. 

They stumble towards Sherlock’s bedroom, half-asleep. John sits down on his bed and Sherlock goes to the bathroom, uses the toilet, undresses and puts on his pyjama bottoms and his old t-shirt from the night before. 

He finds John in his bed, curled on his side and asleep already. He is so tired he doesn’t even think. 

— 

Hours later, Sherlock wakes to dim light seeping through the curtains, and to John close to him, impossibly warm and intimate. He smells different now, Sherlock notices, and catalogues this special morning scent. He likes it. It has smelled like home since the first morning John has walked into the kitchen after he had moved in with Sherlock all those years ago. 

He turns until he is lying on side and watches John. He watches him for a long time. John looks relaxed, the lines on his face are smoother now, less deep. His hair is tousled and Sherlock wants to comb his fingers though it, feel the silky softness. There is something boyish about John like this. Another thing he knows he is already addicted to. 

He watches John’s ridiculously gorgeous, slightly upturned nose and considers touching it. Instead he places a hand on John’s chest and feels his heart beat under his fingers. 

“There is a room in my mind palace,” he whispers, so low even he can barely hear it. 

“It’s small, and warm,” he proceeds, just as low. John is still sleeping. “There is music. It’s where we dance. It’s where you’ve kissed me.” 

He swallows. 

“I had to lock it. To keep myself from retreating there. From dwelling in there too long.” 

He always expected he would feel sad the day he told John about this, but now he finds he isn't sad at all. 

“Always wanted to take you there. Never thought I’d be able to.” 

And now he chokes nonetheless and feels foolish about it, and has turn his head to the ceiling to fight the tears. He tries not to snivel. 

John moves, turns and props himself up on one elbow. 

“Hey,” he says, and places a kiss to Sherlock’s cheekbone. 

— 

They talk. In low voices, at first, and only a few words. John holds Sherlock, lets Sherlock’s head rest heavily against his shoulder, until it starts to hurt and he lays his head on Sherlock’s chest. Then there are longer sentences, there is laughter, and relief. He informs Sherlock about the term _pillow talk_ , which Sherlock dismisses as ridiculous and secretly finds it very fitting. 

They take turns going to the bathroom, later. Brush their teeth and go back to bed. 

Sherlock eventually wonders if John will get hungry and hopes he doesn’t. He absolutely doesn’t want John to leave the bed, the warm, sheltered cocoon they’ve created. 

They talk some more, never knowing they’ve had so many unsaid words dwelling inside them. They touch each other all the time. 

When the talking ebbs off, John draws circles on Sherlock’s belly. At some point, Sherlock’s t-shirt shifts upwards and John’s hand slips under, finally touching Sherlock’s bare skin. 

It feels so easy, and it feels exciting at the same time. With all the happiness that has been poured into Sherlock’s heart since last night, he isn’t even worried or scared. 

He _wants_ , he realizes. He wants this so badly. 

— 

John is kissing him, and there is an edge of desire creeping in now, sweet and promising. He reciprocates, pulling John closer, cupping the back of his head with one hand, and feeling utterly clumsy. 

_Is this how it’s done?_

John groans into the kiss. 

_Obviously._

— 

The shirts come off, Sherlock’s first, and then John’s. 

The sensation of John’s skin on his own is breathtaking, and John’s fingertips stroking across the sensitive skin above his hip bones is making him shiver. 

When John slips his fingers under the waistband of his pants, Sherlock’s brain threatens to go momentarily offline. John halts, letting his thumb and index fingers rest dangerously close to the tip of Sherlock’s hard cock. 

Sherlock nods with shaky exhale, and then John kisses him again, so artfully and devastating Sherlock moans into his mouth, wet and slippery and hot. 

— 

Sherlock forces himself to breathe slowly. He tries not to inhale too loudly, not to give away his nervousness, his arousal. John’s hands feel so good on his skin, on his hair. It feels as if John has found a secret key to his body, to make his body feel like this. 

For once, Sherlock is enjoying his body, he wants to know what else John can make him feel. He wants to feel everything, to know everything. 

He wants to touch John the same way, but not right now. There is no way he can move now, he can’t even lift a hand, his brain is too busy processing everything that is happening now. 

John’s right hand is on his neck, his fingers threading into the curls at his nape, stroking him. Reassuring him, holding him, touching a spot that’s always visible, for everyone, and yet a deeply personal place to lay one’s fingers on. 

John kisses him. Sherlock feels his soft lips, his tongue. Knowing, guiding kisses. Feeding Sherlock desire and stilling it at the same time, making him marvel at how John can be so skilled at kissing and Sherlock never had any idea about it. It’s the sweetest surprise. 

Sherlock kisses back, imitating his movements, until he can transform his arousal into tentative actions of his own. Flicking his tongue against John’s, sliding across John’s lower lip. He licks it, now, after years of wondering what it might taste like. It tastes like the essence of _John._

The fingertips of John’s left hand stroke through his pubic hair, so close to his cock he can feel their warmth. He enjoys it, tries to devour it, but there is no use in denying that this isn’t nearly enough. He moves his hips, rolls them, trying to move closer to John’s hand and yet enjoying the motion in itself. It’s paralyzing and making his body feel like liquid at the same time. 

— 

John, of course, understands the hint. He shifts his hand and touches Sherlock’s cock. He wraps his fingers around the shaft and it’s good that he does, Sherlock can’t help but push against it. 

John caresses Sherlock’s cock, panting low into Sherlock’s mouth, letting their kiss grow messy. He presses his fingers against it, and _oh_ , it’s delicious. He slowly strokes his thumb across Sherlock’s frenulum, sending a wave of lust through Sherlock’s skin. 

When he smears his thumb over the wet, swollen head of Sherlock’s cock, the sensation is perfect. It’s so very much what Sherlock needs that it takes his breath away for a moment, making him arch into John’s hand. And it stirs desire inside him, deep, all-embracing desire and lust. 

— 

He completely underestimated the amount of gratitude he’d feel during sex. Gratitude for the shelter John provides, keeping Sherlock safe at this point where he allows himself to been seen so very naked. So very vulnerable. 

Gratitude for John’s miraculous ability to wipe away the awkwardness with a touch of his fingers against Sherlock’s skin. 

Gratitude to feel John around him, _on_ him. 

To be able to let himself fall into John’s hands. 

— 

Sherlock’s hips buck when John touches the tip of his cock again, and again, when he rubs his thumb over it, slick with precome. Shivers ripple through Sherlock’s body and John strokes him, caresses him, groans at the way he feels under his fingertips. 

Sherlock feels John’s hard cock pressed against his hip, leaving a wet imprint on his skin. 

John bows down, kisses his neck. Murmurs things into Sherlock’s ear in between kisses that make Sherlock gasp and writhe and beg for more. 

— 

Sherlock pants. He moans. 

All sensation is focused at the points where John is touching him. The amount of arousal building up inside him is simultaneously unbearable and the most pleasurable thing he has ever experienced. 

John keeps going, keeps stroking him, and Sherlock is getting closer and closer and _closer._ He is almost there, he registers breathlessly, his body already floating, almost there. 

“Oh, John, I’m — I’m coming,” he whispers, voice high and incredulous and full of wonder. 

— 

John starts uttering a string of praise that makes Sherlock blush even days later. 

It only subsides when John comes a few minutes later, panting Sherlock’s name and spilling his come over Sherlock’s hand. 

— 

Afterwards, they sleep. Sticky, sweaty, tangled in discarded t-shirts and messy duvets. They sleep through Mrs Hudson’s polite knocks on the kitchen door, and only see the plate of mince pies and gingerbread she has left them on the kitchen table hours later. 

Sherlock plays the violin. He improvises the _Carol of the Bells, Perfect Day_ and some Christmas Carols John told him he likes, that morning, when they were making pillow talk. 

It’s the first Christmas _after_. After they’ve finally arrived where they’ve wanted to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfPCxCua0xY) of The Carol of the Bells, sung so wonderfully by the St Paul's Cathedral Choir. I am in awe.  
>   
> Forgive me for indulging heavily in my fascination with St Paul's Cathedral. [Here](https://www.stpauls.co.uk/visits/visits/explore-the-cathedral) you can catch a glimpse at St Paul's, its interior and the Stone Gallery, and [here](https://londonist.com/london/art-and-photography/in-photos-st-paul-s-at-it-s-best) is another collection of beautiful pictures of St Paul's. *heavy sigh* London. My heart.


End file.
